Near the tippy top of my list of Things I Don’t Understand About the World and People are people with no need for, or concept of, personal space. (Full disclosure--sometimes I flinch when someone is just reaching across the table for a pen or the mashed potatoes.)

I know we are all on the introvert/extrovert scale. I get that some of us live for a party, speak to strangers in elevators, and actually mean it when we say “we should get together.” Then there are others of us who live for solitude, talk to strangers’ dogs, and prefer to let our fingers do the talking on Facebook and Instagram.

But who are these people who, in a nearly-empty theater, SIT RIGHT NEXT TO US?* The ones who stand too close in an elevator . . . the ones who creep up behind us in line? Do they really not notice that there are 100 other empty seats . . . that the elevator holds a dozen people and there are only two of us . . . that I can literally hear you breathing behind me in line? Are they extroverts who are magnetically drawn to other humans? In church I can understand it, sort of. Church is a communal experience. But in a theater or waiting room or grocery line, why? I'm not even sure if it's an introvert/extrovert thing. I don’t understand it at all.

And then there are their close relatives, the Loud Public Speakers. I don’t know about you but when I’m in a store or doctor’s waiting room or other public place I talk just loud enough for the person I’m with to hear me. The world is my library. Hush. (Although honestly, in a doctor’s waiting room I’m probably nervous and busy with my panicky inner dialogue about disease and death so I wouldn’t be talking to anyone anyway.) But there are people out there who talk to their children or have awkward, personal conversations at a volume that makes me think they must believe it’s impolite to have a private conversation in a public place. Of course it’s impolite to whisper about someone who is right across the dinner table from you, but when we’re in Wal-Mart, it’s ok if I don’t hear about your sister’s creepy boyfriend while I’m picking out my toothpaste, and please stop threatening to smack your kids—they don’t believe you and neither do I, although I’m secretly wishing you’d take some kind of action rather than just the shouting and swearing.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I magnetically attract the close-sitters, the loud-talkers, the people who talk to themselves (or are they talking to me—I’m never sure), the restroom groaners (it’s a PUBLIC restroom, keep your thank-god-I-made-it-in-time sounds to yourself!). Recently in a restaurant bathroom an elderly woman with a walker and superhuman strength nearly tore the stall door off while I kept saying “Someone’s in here . . . I’M IN HERE!” I know she heard me because she repeated what I said in a low, gruff voice which made me even more panicky because I thought she had brought a man in there with her, and then she continued shaking the door with her freakishly strong little arms, and stood there blocking the door when I tried to escape. (I’m not making fun of her, I'm just trying to explain the depth and breadth of my frequent public traumas.)

So in the interest of human relations, if you’re one of these people, maybe you can explain your ways to me, and I can explain my need for personal space to you and the world will be a better place.

​*If someone sits in front of you in a nearly empty theater, that's different. They're just jerks.

I wrote this in 1997. It was the first thing I ever wrote just for myself, not as an assignment or request. I believe I have posted it somewhere before but couldn't find it, so here it is. I was tempted to fix it up and edit or update, but this is where I was then and I'm leaving it alone. Now that I'm a granny I'll update in another post sometime. The picture at the right is my grandma, mom, oldest daughter and myself at her dedication (like baptism but a little different). She was about two months old and wearing my great-grandma's dress.

"I’m the mom." It occurred to me when I brought my first baby home from the hospital and we spent our first day alone together. I looked at her and thought, “I’m the mom!” It felt like my greatest accomplishment. Every time someone came to look at her I wanted to hold her up and say “Ta-daaa!!” She was so tiny and perfect. Her life was all possibilities. I would watch her sleep and wish she would wake up so I could hold her. But I was the mom! I could hold her if I wanted, whenever I wanted! So I did. And she didn’t want anyone else to hold her--except daddy. Her only babysitters were her grandma and her aunts, and not very often. But sometimes we had to get out, away from home, independent. And we spent the evening talking about her. “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of pride.

“I'm the mom” has come to have so many other connotations since then. “I'm the mom” is what you say in the emergency room and at parent conferences, when there are other authority figures in your child’s life who want to know your business there. They think they’re in charge of your child, but it’s only temporary, and when you get there they must defer to you. Even if you don’t want them to. This I learned when my tiny perfect daughter was tall and twelve and had been watching the summer Olympics. A neighbor helped her home from the park. She was cradling her right arm, which seemed to have two wrists. I felt about twelve myself, and wanted to scream and cover my eyes. I looked around, but everyone was watching me, waiting for me to decide what to do about this. How should I know? I’m just trying not to throw up, standing here in the street. But I’m the mom! How can I be the mom? How did I get in charge of this? I wanted to holler for my own mom. But I said the wisest thing I could think of. I turned to my son and said, “Go get Dad!” “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of authority.

Now she's fourteen, and that phrase has even more meaning. There are boys out there. And their radar has found our house. And I’m feeling very old. It seems like last week that I was asking to go somewhere with my friends, talking on the phone for hours, rolling my eyes in exasperation at my parents. They didn’t know anything. They never had fun, and when they thought they were having fun it was really just boring stuff, poor things. Now I’m the one having to decide what’s allowed and what’s not. She’s having as much social life as her dad and I let her, and of course it’s not nearly enough for her. We want to trust her, want her to have fun, want her to have friends. But I see a big scary world out there, and she’s so young. I drop her off at the mall with her friends and watch her walk away and each time I have to decide all over again not to follow. Friends pick her up at home and I watch her leave giggling, happy to be out, away from home, independent.I look at her dad and see the boy he used to be and I think “Hey Buster, get up and take me somewhere fun. Our daughter thinks we’re old!” But I don’t say it. I’ll wait here till she gets home. “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of challenge.​What if I shook it off, just for a day--the voice of authority, the empty checkbook of responsibility, the frown lines of frustration . . . but if I did that, even for an hour, I would miss something amazing. And I don't want to miss a minute of all this--because I'm the Mom!

In early February it seemed like everywhere I turned people were talking about Lent. Growing up we didn’t really “do” Lent. Ash Wednesday and Fish Fridays were things our Catholic friends did. I feel the same way about fasting something during Lent as I do about making New Year’s resolutions: Every year I give it about five minutes of consideration, but I know I’ll last about three hours before I go completely off-track and hate myself for my lack of discipline, so why even try?

But an idea came to me that I couldn’t shake. I stink at giving things up, but what if I added something instead? I’ve been doing a modest workout two or three times a week since last summer, but—full disclosure--I treat myself to a lot of days off. Could I set a goal to work out every day for the 40 days of Lent? ME? Every day?? That’s just crazy talk!

But I decided to give the crazy idea a try, the way you get into a cold pool—one toe at a time. I worked out two days in a row, then hey look, three days . . . hey look, five days . . . . I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to make a dork out of myself when I gave up after a few days, nor did I want to seem like I was bragging, and I sure didn’t want anyone to expect me to drop 50 lbs. But here I am at Day 20. I’m halfway there! (Except that I just looked it up and NO, I’m not halfway there, because I’m an underachiever and can’t do math or count boxes on a calendar and Lent is actually 46 days this year! So I’m almost halfway there. Meh, close enough.)

A couple things you should know:1. Do not expect any amazing weight loss stories here. They say you get fit in the gym and lose weight in the kitchen, and I’m still eating cheeseburgers and leftover Valentine candy. One goal at a time.2. I’m not really doing this as a spiritual endeavor, just mostly as a way of committing to a time frame and marking a finish line. If I wanted to be fancy I’d say there’s a connection between caring for my physical health and my spiritual health, and developing discipline in either area can’t be bad. But I’m not that fancy. If I have any spiritual epiphanies I’ll let you know.

A couple things I’ve noticed:1. Gyms are COMPLETELY different places at night than they are in the morning. I usually go early in the morning, but one day I missed my chance and went around 6 p.m. Huge mistake for an introvert. The place was full of people--sweaty muscle guys, girls in matchy-matchy outfits watching the guys, it was stinky, the music was loud and if my sister hadn’t been there I’d have left. I was panicky, and when my fight-or-flight response kicks in, I’m all about the flight. I much prefer the early mornings, with my old people in t-shirts and baggy sweats, professional-looking women who work out and then get ready for the office and leave looking perfect, and the most courageous group: the ones who look like their doctors scared them into going.2. Just when I think I’ve created a rock-solid new habit, there comes a morning when I’ve slept badly or I’m just sick of winter and it would be easy to tell myself I deserve a break and it’s not like I’m going to make it to the goal anyway. Even this morning, knowing I intended to post this, I struggled with that voice: “It’s cold. It’s dark. There could be a bad guy in the parking lot. You don’t have to do this. Nobody will know you started and gave up.” But I’m happy to say that if I can just get vertical, my body clock says “let’s go” and I go. That’s a first for me.​This is NOT me giving any kind of advice. I decided to share this now, at the halfway point, because it will make it harder for me to abandon this commitment if I’ve told people about it. Also I have set the bar low. You’re welcome.

After a quick weekend trip to Chippewa Falls/Eau Claire, Wisconsin, I would like to offer the following suggestions for new state mottos:

Wisconsin: Take Your Shoes Off, We Just Cleaned(Seriously, the whole place looks freshly scrubbed. Don’t go tracking your out-of-state dirt all over the place.)

Wisconsin: Cranberry Bogs—Who Knew?(I thought they were only in Rhode Island.)

Wisconsin: Even Our Walmart Employees are Polite(And they have that adorable accent.)

Wisconsin: More Culver’s Than Starbucks(You can see the next Culver’s from the last one. I’m fine with that.)

Wisconsin: We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Street Lights(Would it kill you guys to light up the interstate, or does everybody just go home before dark?)

Other travel thoughts:

My souvenir policy: t-shirt or it didn’t happen.

When I see someone walking into a motel with dogs: “Cute dog! How nice that they allow dogs here!”When I’m trying to sleep in a bed that’s not mine and somebody’s dog is barking: “^%#@&*&&$%# dog!”​No matter where I am or how “foreign” the cable channels, if I can find an episode of “Law and Order,” I’m home.

﻿﻿﻿﻿I don't write poetry, but I wrote this poem-ish thing a few years ago.﻿﻿

﻿﻿I prayed in your room tonight.We just brought you home.You’re so tiny and perfect and brand new.I knew just what to say.I prayed for the energy to take good care of youAnd the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need.

I prayed in your room tonight.Your perfect little body is sick and I’m scared.It’s probably nothing, but it’s something to me.I knew just what to say.I prayed for your healthThat I would wake if you needed meAnd the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need.

I prayed in your room tonight.You’re out without us for the first time.The world is a big place, sometimes good and sometimes bad.Will you recognize which is which?I knew just what to say.I prayed for your safetyYour choicesPeaceAnd the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need.

I prayed in your room tonight.I don’t know where you are.I hope you will choose well.But sometimes clouds cover the stars And the path is dimly lit.I didn’t know what to say.I prayed for youAnd the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need.﻿﻿﻿﻿

I begin with a disclaimer. I am not an expert on anything. I’m just a people watcher who notices things. Of all of my driving pet peeves, the crime against humanity at the top of my list is people who don’t pull out into the intersection while they wait to turn left. Here’s how it should go. You approach an intersection with a green light. You would like to make a left turn to go home for lunch (and you may be somewhat hangry*). But there is traffic in the oncoming lane. So you pull straight out into the intersection to wait for a break in the traffic. When the traffic clears, you proceed with your turn. If the traffic clears enough, the person waiting behind you to turn left gets to go too. If the traffic does not clear and the light turns red, since you are already out in the intersection you wait for the oncoming traffic to stop and then proceed quickly with your turn. The person behind you may turn close on your heels or wait for the next green, depending on their position and guts.See how easy that is? What you do NOT do is stop BEHIND THE CROSSWALK to wait for a break in traffic and then timidly take FOREVER to make your TURN. (Yes, I'm yelling.) Because if you WAIT BEHIND THE CROSSWALK and the break in traffic never comes and the light turns red, you AND your left-turn-buddy behind you are STUCK THERE for another WHOLE TRAFFIC CYCLE. There is a sub-set of jerks who wait behind the crosswalk through an entire green light and then when the light turns red, floor it and dart out into the intersection to on the red light. I’m pretty sure my system is legal, and I’m positive that one is not. So I was sitting behind one of those morons who waited behind the line and then darted out when the light turned red last week and when I finished yelling I started thinking about anger. Sometimes I’m driving along, singing with a Christian song on the radio, and it goes something like this: “If we are the body, why aren’t His arms reaching, why aren’t His hands healing, WHAT?! WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?? WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU, MOVE MOVE MOOOVE!!!!”**How can I be so serene one minute and so infuriated the next? I started thinking about all the things that make me angry and the things I’ve noticed make other people angry and there’s a question that applies to almost every situation: How can you be so stupid? Really, how do you sit behind the line at an intersection and then dart out on a red light? How can you be sick for three weeks and then demand a medical appointment right this minute? Why would you buy that kind of toilet paper when you know I like Cottonelle? How can you possibly vote that way? How can you not see this problem? HOW CAN YOU BE SO STUPID?I wouldn’t dart out at a red light. I am smart enough to know I’m not the only sick person needing an appointment. I’m bright enough to know my family’s favorite toilet paper. I vote in the best interests of my fellow humans. Why aren’t you more like me?I’m sure the woman at the gas station drive-up window wondered how I could be so stupid when I zoomed past the sign that read “Stop and order here” and went straight to the pickup window. But she was nicer than I am—she just said “You know you can order back there, hon.” (Oops.)And that’s the problem. While I’m wondering how other people can be so stupid and why they can’t just drive like they should—like me, obviously—they’re wondering why I’m so stupid and can’t be more like them. Maybe you don’t get angry. Maybe you get frustrated, or exasperated, or upset. And maybe you don’t think other people are stupid, maybe you think they’re lazy or clueless or selfish. And of course you’re upset when someone gets into the 10-items-or-less line ahead of you with a cart full of groceries. Or when that dear friend you thought you knew puts a sign in his yard supporting a politician everyone knows is crooked (except your clueless idiot of a friend). You’re entitled to feel ang—um, frustrated—at that person. The problem is them, not you! Right? You’re just trying to be normal and reasonable!Short-term, it feels good to be angry. I’ll admit it. It’s an adrenaline jolt and it makes me feel morally superior. When I catch that guy letting his dog use my front yard for a toilet I fantasize about visiting his house during the night with a load of deposits from our back yard. (We have two dogs, and they’re bigger than his.) He deserves it. But long-term, anger is draining. It wears me out to be angry. Have you spent any significant amount of time around a chronically angry person? It’s exhausting. And it’s no cuter on you than it is on them. After awhile it’s like bagging up the waste from my back yard and then instead of dumping it at the neighbor’s house (which I am not suggesting), I just lug it around. All the time. It stinks, it’s heavy, and I’m pretty sure it makes me kind of repulsive to the people around me. I would like people who think I’m stupid to cut me some slack and not expect me to be like them, because I’m not and I can’t be. I’m doing the best I can with what I've got. And in order to lay that sack of crap down, I guess I have to do the same for them.

What makes you angry?

*Hungry + angry

**The first part is If We Are the Body, by Casting Crowns. The second part is all me.

When I was a kid my mom had a hard-and-fast rule for the five of us: If you were too sick to go to school, you were definitely too sick to go anywhere else. That’s not an issue for me now. If I’m sick enough to stay home from work, I’m sure not taking my no-makeup/crazy hair/sweatpants self out of the house. But, just like school days, staying home sick isn’t as much fun as you’d expect. You feel like crap, and all your friends are occupied out in the world.What’s a sickie to do when facing long, lonely hours of misery? We’re no longer at the mercy of the wasteland that is daytime television—now we can binge watch TV series and movies online or on demand. But you really need an activity that allows you to doze off unexpectedly without missing anything. (Heaven forbid you’re struck by an impromptu nap during “Sherlock.”)I offer the following suggestions:

Facebook-stalk people who aren’t on your friend list. Don’t worry, it’s not real stalking because you’re only reading information they’ve put out there in public. Their mistake. (If you find this appalling, you should probably double check your own privacy settings.)

If you’re not too sick to lift your head off the pillow, look around the room from your chair, couch or bed and make a to-do list (for someone else to do, of course). There’s stuff you don’t notice when you’re busy living your healthy, normal life. But believe you me, when you’re just lying there too miserable to move anything but your eyeballs, you’ll notice some unacceptable situations going on, especially if you’re watching show after show on HGTV. By the end of the day your non-open-concept walls will be closing in on you and you’ll realize that to remain (or become) a Person of Good Taste, that carpet has to be replaced with hand-scraped hardwood. (You have Formica countertops? Animal!) Sounds discouraging, but this will actually give you a reason to go on.

Throw a load of clothes in the washer. When your family comes home, you’ll look like a trooper. Even as sick as you are, you got up and tried to do housework. They’ll have no choice but to finish the load before it gets that smell. (If you live alone, skip this one. Not worth it if you’re not going to impress anyone.)

Feel sorry for yourself. Wade into that pool of self-pity and wallow your brains out. You’re home alone and miserable. Nobody else is going to feel as bad for you as you do. You don’t usually get this kind of uninterrupted sympathy, even from yourself, so enjoy it!

If this list doesn’t sound appealing, good. You must be healthy. But take another look next time you’re sick--when you have a fever, your expectations and entertainment threshold are probably much lower.Note: I had a fever when I wrote this. And my countertops are not only Formica, they’re stock.

I hope you have seen the classic movie Gone with the Wind. (If you haven’t, you will miss many cultural references in your lifetime.) It’s a HUGE story. My youngest daughter watched it for the first time a couple years ago and at the end, asked, “What is this, a Tarantino movie?” (What can I say, the Civil War was a violent time.) Reading the book is a great idea, but that won’t help you right now because the nurse in my head is from the movie, and she’s not even a real nurse.In one iconic scene from the movie, the war is going badly for the South. Pampered Southern ladies Scarlett and Melanie are in Atlanta. Melanie is about to have a baby, and the young house maid, Prissy (played by Butterfly McQueen, who, before becoming an actor, wanted to be a nurse), brags to Scarlett that she knows all about delivering babies and has assisted at many births. But when the doctor can’t come because he is tending to wounded Confederate soldiers, and Scarlett tells Prissy she has to go it alone, Prissy breaks down and shrieks the truth: “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ babies!”http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/281121/Gone-With-The-Wind-Movie-Clip-Bringing-A-Baby.html(I love this part of the movie so much that I sometimes shriek Prissy’s line myself when I’m feeling overwhelmed by life.)Prissy is the nurse in my head. She tells me she knows everything about everything, but I think all my 21st century Prissy is doing is trying to match my symptoms to the most terrifying disease, syndrome, infection or condition she can find. She tells me it’s going to be ok and that she has taken care of this kind of problem many times before. But the minute I wake up with a scratchy throat, she screams, “IT’S EBOLA! YOU’VE GOT EBOLA!” When my oldest daughter broke her arm (and when my son broke his head, and when my other daughter got stitches, etc., etc.) and I was trying to act like a calm grownup, Prissy was in my head shrieking “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout broken bones!” When I have heartburn, she tells me it’s a heart attack. And, like in the movie, she doesn’t bring the doctor. She tells me the doctor is busy with real sick people. “There’s folks dying out there, quit worrying about your mole . . . although it is bigger than last week. What, you can’t remember how big it was last week? You have Alzheimer’s AND melanoma!” She’s no Florence Nightingale, but I guess it could be worse. I could be stuck with Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, or Annie Wilkes, from Misery. Prissy hasn’t had me lobotomized or broken my ankles. Yet. Doctors are not amused by Prissy. They don’t seem to like walking into the exam room, asking what brings me in today, and hearing Prissy’s suggestions about what the problem might be. I try to leave Prissy in the car when I go to the doctor, but if she insists on coming in with me I get sort of a kick out of seeing my doctor roll her eyes, because if she rolls her eyes that means I’m being ridiculous and Prissy is wrong and I do not have Ebola or Alzheimer’s or Pseudobulbar Affect. (Have you SEEN that commercial? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqjT_YqmNas. Prissy has me terrified of it! I’m afraid to laugh too hard at a joke or tear up over that commercial where the different species of animals are friends because what if it’s not really that funny or that touching and I have Pseudobulbar Affect?! Someone please tell me if you notice this behavior.)Another thing about doctors—have you noticed that when you’re young, you call the doctor’s office all urgent because you think you might have strep and want to get rid of it ASAP, and since you’re there anyway you mention some other random problems and Life Questions and they assure you that you’re fine and throw you out.You go to the doctor when YOU want to see the DOCTOR. But once you hit 50 you try to duck into the doctor’s office, snag a scrip for heartburn that’s been going on for 473 days in a row and duck out with a friendly “thanks-seeya-next-year,” but now they want to chat and ask a hundred questions about this heartburn and a bunch of other things you’d rather not think about like colonoscopies and sketchy bloodwork. The DOCTOR wants to see YOU. This is a 180 in the ol’ doctor/patient relationship, and it does not feel like a good one. Hitting 50 must be one of those milestones, like puberty, except nobody tells you your body is about to make some changes and it’s not fun or exciting. I suppose my doctor should be glad I have Prissy in my head, because I show up in her office as requested just to shut Prissy up. (Prissy says “You’re welcome.”)

If you’ve ever watched ﻿Hoarders﻿ on A & E or Hoarding: Buried Alive on TLC, you’ve probably noticed that every episode follows a pattern: Introduction of the hoarder, a walk through the house, the hoarder expresses willingness to let a professional help get their stuff “organized.” (Quick quiz: What is the proper container for “organizing” dead cats? Answer: Your freezer or Ziploc bags. Look it up yourself. I can’t bring myself to post the link.) Then a team of kind friends, stunned relatives and incredibly stoic organizers assembles, led by a psychologist. The hoarder is more or less gung-ho to save their home, or at least mildly cooperative. The psychologist and lead organizer explain the plan and the consequences for not cleaning up, which may involve the city bulldozing the house. Watching this part, you feel relieved. Yes. Let’s watch this transformation. If this place can be cleaned up, I can surely get my sock drawer under control.

And then reality sinks in and the hoarder starts feeling the pressure of all those hazmat-suited people picking through their precious collection and throwing things into the back of a truck. A freakout threatens. The psychologist steps in, warning the cleanup team to slow down and let the hoarder see what’s being put into the truck, the yard sale pile, the donate pile and the back of the Animal Control truck. So in the midst of mind-blowing, soul-crushing, ceiling-high, floor-rotting piles of used Depends, pets (dead and/or alive), vermin, spoiled food, papers, books, toys crusted with filth, clothing and kitchen gadgets with the tags still on and dangerous rusty appliances, the hoarder begins delicately picking through each . . . and . . . every . . . item . . . one . . . by . . . one. EVERY SINGLE TINY THING, no matter how disgusting. They can’t seem to prioritize between a food wrapper from 1997 and a current asthma prescription. It is painful to watch. They’re moving at a hopeless pace. You can clearly see that the action the hoarder is taking is not going to fix the problem in this lifetime. You want to yell “No, don’t!” at the tv, like when you’re watching a horror movie and somebody stands with their back to a window.

Well there’s a hoarder in my head. She works the midnight shift. She carefully picks through each and every piece of debris that has come through during the day, and instead of throwing away the obvious trash, she saves it to worry about later. She rummages through dark corners I had forgotten about (or wanted to forget about) and piles of things I meant to throw away but never did. She wakes me up at 3 a.m. to say “Hey, look what I just found! It’s that thing you said today, you know, the thing you thought maybe you shouldn’t say but you did anyway and it seemed funny but it was just stupid. Haha. Way to go!” She asks what I’m going to wear tomorrow, makes fun of it, and then suggests to the Worst Accountant Ever in my head that we should all go shopping. (Of course the Worst Accountant Ever agrees, as usual, without consulting my bank account. More on that in the future.)She’s loud, mean and relentless. She must be guzzling espresso up there. Her favorite stash is the tidy, labeled photo albums she keeps about me with names like Things I Wish I’d Done Differently, Diseases and Conditions I Will Probably Die From, People Who Hurt Me, People I Hurt, Why Did I Eat That (Volumes 1-3), and Crap I Wasted Money On. There’s a special album called Stuff I Forgot to Do Today--that one is like Snapchat, it disappears before the next morning when I could actually correct the problem. The past, present and future are all fair game for the Hoarder.

I am working on a way to throw her out, or at least tame her. If I can get her to use her powers for good, like reminding me of useful things and offering encouragement, I could tolerate having her around. Burn those photo albums and start new ones, like People I Love, Nature, Favorite Music, Times God Snatched Me Up Out of the Path of a Speeding Truck and I Didn’t Even Know It—those would be some good things to look through. Hoarder, I know your game and your days are numbered. Clean up or get bulldozed.

I have WAY more experience staying home than going on vacation, but here are some vacation things I always want to continue when I return home to the state 50% of its residents want to leave.

Set better boundaries. Part of the beauty of getting away is that you’re automatically excused from certain things. “Sorry, I can’t—we’ll be gone.” Whew, huh? We can’t avoid stressors in life, but I could re-evaluate all the things I think I “have to” do, and someday learn to say no without mental anguish.

Purge my house. Living with so few possessions makes me realize I could—and I want to--live with less every day. Why am I keeping all those mismatched socks—their mates are never coming back! And the crafty odds and ends and stretched out sweaters I’m sure I’ll use someday… I blame Pinterest.

Get more sleep. Sleep, much like chocolate and cheese, makes everything better. I can’t help what time my brain nudges me awake to start asking ridiculous “what if” questions, but I can control what time I go to bed. I once read that at the Minirth-Meyer clinics, when a new client first arrives, they schedule no counseling appointments or group therapy for the first few days. They just advise the client to sleep as much as possible. Sometimes that alone is a huge step toward mental health.

Pay more attention to my relationships. I just spent two solid weeks with nobody but my husband for companionship. (I’m pretty sure he’s the only one I could do that with, and not end up as the perpetrator or victim of a homicide.) It was an interesting couple of weeks. There were times I felt like I had just met up with a guy I used to date. We don’t really have to run away from home to get to know each other outside of our daily routine (although it helps). I could have meaningful conversations with my loved ones without leaving town. I think I’ll try it. (What was that sound? Oh. Just my kids groaning.)

Put work in perspective. Get a little mental distance between me and the ol’ 9-5. Actually I think I’m pretty good at this one. (Easy for me to say, with my part-time, summers-off job.) But not everyone is. Ahem.

See the beauty around me. While I’m visiting someone else’s town, someone else is visiting mine. We have a lovely state park seven miles down the road from home—I could actually get away without leaving town. Also, Yard Crashers is not coming to my house. I can quit dreaming, hang some wind chimes next to my lawn chair and enjoy my own space.

Slow. Down. My vacation is not even over—it feels like I just got into low gear—but as departure approaches I can feel my mind beginning to ratchet up for “real life.” Real life will get here soon enough. Enjoy the slow.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.